HOUND
by JadeBuohler
Summary: Dartmoor. Baskerville. A monstrous hound. Bound to catch the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes, and his companion John Watson. But what do we have? A supernatural, giant, man-eating dog? Sounds like a hunter's job; Sam and Dean's to be exact. So what happens when the two brothers and the two detectives meet? And what exactly is lurking out there in Dewer's Hollow?
1. A Much Needed Vacation

**Hello guys! Tell me what you think of this, won't you?**

**This takes place, for Dean and Sam, right after their father's death.  
****I love supernatural though I am not fully versed in everything about them, as the seasons are long and there are a lot of them I haven't got up with just yet, so in this case, it will just be the brother's on a short trip, meant to be a vacation.  
For Sherlock and John, it is of course The Hounds of Baskerville, EXCEPT, I am changing up the plot a little bit.  
Not sure how long this story will be, but there will be long chapters.  
This first one is short though, just because I'd like to know what you think.  
Personally I am proud of the cover I made, ;) heehee**

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

* * *

Sherlock was on edge, and John was feeling his wrath. It was like putting a tiger in a cage and prodding it with a stick continuously until you finally get a reaction out of it. The tiger's reaction: Sherlock's reaction. One in the same.

He'd already tried to resort to cigarettes, to which John was firm in stating he was unsure of their location. He was quite positive Sherlock could see right through him, but he didn't care. As long as the consulting detective didn't get to them, all would be fine. He'd already scared Ms. Hudson off with his harpoon of all things, yelling deductions at her about one _Mr. Chatterjee._ He'd spat out every little thing he managed, the fact that she's been at the scratch cards again, that she was wearing a perfume way to racy for the time of day and occasion, and that her new date had a wife somewhere off in Doncaster. She'd ran away, most likely cursing him under her breath and John had just sighed, tried to persuade Sherlock to apologize, but in turn had just been insulted. John thought he was about to lose it, until the bell rang, and Sherlock was squealing with effortless bliss, preparing himself for a new case, as John got to his feet, waddling toward the door. He'd answered to a small man, ovalish face, rather large ears, and faint light, brown hair atop his head. He seemed utterly nervous as he gazed at Watson, a duffle bag draped over his shoulder.

"I'm here for Sherlock Holmes?" He questioned his supposed-to-be statement, twiddling his fingers anxiously. John had nodded and ushered him inside, telling him to get comfortable. Sherlock only stared, watching their new client with immense concentration, like a lion glaring at a gazelle, eager to pounce (in Sherlock's case, eager to get on with the deductions). John wasn't sure why he kept comparing his flat mate to wild cats.

"What's your name?" John asked politely as he set a cup of tea down in front of the oddly terrified man. He took it carefully and immediately took a sip, a small smile twitching on his expression. "Henry. Henry Knight."

* * *

"I can't believe you dragged me to England." Dean mumbled angrily, as he pulled his suitcase along with him, Sam trailing shortly behind.

"Hey, Dean, it's just a vacation, as I said before-" Dean cut his brother off, "Yeah, yeah, we need some time away. Got it." He found his eyes traveling over to every stewardess located in the rather large airport, all of which smiled back at him, causing him to smirk widely in his own pride.

Sam only huffed from behind, as they marched onward. They approached the exit; trotting up to the doors, pushing them open, and stepping out into the cool air. Dean sniffed his nose as the wind brushed past him, the frigid sensation sending shivers up his arms. Sam took the lead, inching in front of him as a small taxicab pulled up, black and white, with a faint touch of yellow.

He sighed, "This is weird."

Sam narrowed his eyes, taking Dean's luggage from him as he stuffed their things into the trunk. "What's weird?"

Dean groaned and shook his head, pulling open the taxi door. "Not driving in the Impala."

Sam smiled as his brother disappeared into the depths of the cab. He pushed the trunk closed and followed after him.

~oOo~

They approached the small inn. Sam had decided on Dartmoor of all places. Google had said it was quiet, reserved, secluded and very outdoorsy. Dean was pretty sure Sam wanted to drag him on some nature hike. He would certainly kick and scream his way out of that one. The décor in this small motel/hotel, whatever you want to call it, was certainly _old._ Dean cringed as he gazed at the antique bar, of all things. Hopefully the drinks weren't the same. A strange looking man, rather plump, with faint wrinkles, and dark brown-gray hair, stood at the lobby desk, keyholes behind him for vacant rooms. Sam clutched his luggage and swayed up to him carefully and cautiously, as Sam always did, Dean noted.

The man instantly smile at the sight of him and bobbed his head slightly, "Welcome."

Dean saw another man running rapid in the back, appearing as though he was a chef or a baker, wearing a red ascot and a white sheet for a shirt, or so it seemed.

"Yeah, can we get a room, please?" Sam asked awkwardly, causing Dean to roll his eyes in exhaustion.

"Ah, American. What brings you out here?" The man asked as he and Sam exchanged cash.

"Vacation." Sam sighed and Dean scoffed gently in the back.

"Double room, then?" The man winked with an innocent smile. Sam's eyes widened and he glanced back at Dean. Dean suppressed a smirk.

"No, thanks." Sam replied awkwardly with a small nod of his head.

The man shrugged his shoulders took the money and a moment later handed him the key. "There you go, then."

Dean swayed around and about the small lobby, before his eyes caught sight of a map tucked under a 'For Guest's' sign.  
"What's the skull and crossbones about?" Dean asked with narrowed eyes. Sam turned around and squinted at the pamphlet in Dean's hand, notching the small black dot and skeletal head on top in contrast. The man drew his chin forward, eyes dazzling as if he was about to share a secret.

"The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for eighty-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there any more."

Dean glanced over at Sam with an intrigued expression, ushering the man onward.

He grinned and continued, "Break into that place and – if you're _lucky_ – you just get blown up, so they say ... in case you're planning on a nice wee stroll."  
He teased and sighed wearily, "It buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound!"

Sam froze, and Dean took a step forward. "Demon what?"

The man behind the desk chuckled and leaned back in surprise, "The demon hound? Dartmoor's mascot, if you will?"

Dean shook his head to the man's questioning look, and Sam grunted, inching closer, "What do you mean _demon_ hound?"

The man nodded with a wide smile, eager to share the information, "Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell. When he was a kid, his father was found dead on the moors. Poor kid was convinced he saw a giant hound rip him to shreds. The people living here think something must have escaped from Baskerville," The man shrugged and arched his eyebrows, "There's a documentary about it."

Sam visibly swallowed and gazed at his brother. He then stepped forward, "Every seen it? The hound?"  
The lobby-working man shook his head, "Me? No."  
Dean was unsettled by the spewing amounts of information. Vacation? Sure.

The other man came around the corner, the one who looked like a chef, his nametag revealing the name Billy.

"I'm just saying we've been rushed off our feet." The man mocked and turned to Billy.

The chef nodded with a sharp grunt, "Gary's right. Lots of monster-hunters. Doesn't take much these days. One mention on Twitter and oomph."

Sam turned to Dean, eyes wide with concern, and almost amusement at the irony of the situation.  
Billy then said something about business, receiving a statement from Gary, and then whirled around to leave, speaking as he swayed away, "What with the monster and that ruddy prison, I don't know how we sleep nights. Do you, Gary?"

Sam suddenly saw the connection of the two men and glanced over at Dean, who shifted uncomfortably.

"Like a baby." Gary replied with a wide grin, causing the other man to shake his head in amused irritation, "That's not true,"  
He turned to Sam, "He's a snorer."

Sam raised his chin kindly, awkwardly listening to the conversation, as Dean approached him, stepping away from the maps.

"Is yours a snorer?" Billy asked politely, and Sam immediately froze on the spot.

He swallowed and was instead answered for by Dean. "Oh, yeah." Dean pronounced the words slowly, and winked at his brother.  
He snatched the keys from Sam's hand and trotted towards the Inn stairs, "Come on, babe."

Sam blushed in embarrassment as both Billy and Gary grinned with admiration. He nodded a goodbye and sprinted after his brother.

* * *

**Lemme know what you think in a review? :3**


	2. Some Convincing

**Yes. I know right! I actually posted another chapter!**  
**See, I was going to keep this going and I was happy with it!  
But I started writing other things that I found more enjoyable. **  
**This will be continuous, it will just update a lot slower. **  
**It's more of a side-story for me, ya know? **

**But I am so thankful for the reviews! **  
**The Sherlock scene in this is from the show, and I got the script write up from  
_Ariane DeVere on live journal._  
**

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**

* * *

_Chapter 2_

* * *

"What now?" Dean asked, sprawled out on the sheets of their temporary hotel room bed.

Sam gave his brother a questioning look, chuckling softly, "What do you mean?"

Both knew they were tempted to look into the demon hound situation, but Sam no doubt wanted to at least unpack.

Dean shrugged and sat upward, "I'm bored, Sammy."

Sam scoffed and sighed loudly, "Relaxation Dean. You've got a beer," Dean glanced over at his bottle next to him, "and the TV is turned onto some stupid romantic comedy. What more do you need?"

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, "It's tele, Sam."

Sam squinted and stuck his head forward, puzzled by his brother's words. "What?"

"It's tele now, not TV. We're in England." Dean widened his eyes with an enthusiastic smile, which then instantly turned dark again, resulting in a blank face, deadpanning his younger sibling.

Sam laughed and shook his head in annoyance, "Jerk."

Dean grinned, "Bitch."

After more moments of pure, utter, and rather anguishing silence, Dean, tired of hearing his brother unpack every little thing, down to the last detail, pulled himself up off the bed, grabbed his beer, and stumbled out the door of their room.

He wiped a hand over his face, swaying down the long corridor, taking a sip from the bottle every so often.

The beer was weird. _Different_. They didn't have the typical American one he was used to.

"_Why London, Sammy_?" Dean questioned aloud, shrugging up his shoulders in a lack of understanding.

Why not Italy? They have beaches, babes, and pizza.  
But London? Dreary weather, old-fashioned clothing, and tea? Come on, now.

But there was one thing here that most definitely interested him.

_A monstrous hound_, they said? Sounds rather intriguing.

Dean grinned a rather mischievous grin as he continued down the lonely corridors of their strangely uncomfortable motel.

* * *

The documentary was eerie to say the least. John couldn't help but squirm in his seat. The reporter had the typical "reporter-voice" as she went on, talking about the mysteries of Dartmoor, the stuff of legend and myth. John was quite sure Sherlock wasn't even watching it; his eyes kept constantly darting back to Henry Knight, their new client, and staring at him with a continuous calculating gaze. The kid that had approached them, and was now sitting in John's chair, even showed up on the video at one point, giving his statement on what killed his father – what happened that night, something about a "hound of hell"?

John swallowed as he watched Sherlock pick up the remote, and slam a finger down on the power button, sighing in exasperation.

The detective turned to the newcomer, eyeing him suspiciously, as John sat beside him, rubbing his thumb over the pen in his hand – a notebook also sitting gracefully in his lap.

"What did you see?" Sherlock snapped, eyebrow arched at the small man.

Henry narrowed his eyes and pointed nervously to the television screen, "Oh, I…I was just about to say."

Sherlock immediately countered, causing John to wince inwardly, "Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

The army doctor turned his attention to Henry, scanning over his timid expression, as the man cleared his throat; all while Sherlock sat unmoving.

"Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me."

John felt sorry for the man, watching as he reached in his pocket with shaky fingers to pull out a grimy paper napkin, to wipe his nose.  
"In your own time," The blogger offered in respect to the client's uneasy state.

"But quite quickly," Sherlock felt the need to add, and John could only roll his eyes.

Henry lowered the napkin and drifted his gaze to Sherlock, eyes somewhat serious and dramatically narrowed, "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"It's an amazing place," Henry started rather passionately, "It's like nowhere else. It's sort of…bleak, but beautiful.

Sherlock shrugged, "Mmm, not interested. _Moving on._"

Henry seemed to ignore Sherlock's rude comment; "We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."

Sherlock huffed, "Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?"

John's eyebrows flew up in surprise at Sherlock's insensitivity, just as his eyes widened as well, leading him to shift in his seat, due to the uncomfortable position he was ultimately put in.

Henry cleared his throat, "There's a place – it's a sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow."

Sherlock tilted sideways expectantly, seemingly unimpressed.

Henry swallowed, "That's an ancient name for the Devil."

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head, "_So_?"

John felt the need to finally step in, "Did you see the Devil that night?"

That's when the man's face fell into a horrific, blank stare, as if looking back to the memories that still haunt him.  
He then turned to John, gulped, and nodded, quietly whispering, "Yes."

John and Sherlock simply sat, awaiting further explanation.

"It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes." Henry looked up, "It got him, tore at him, tore him apart." The boy then sighed and shook his head, eyes wide in terror, "I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

"Hmm," John nodded slowly and looked across to Sherlock, "Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous: dog? Wolf?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled, "Or a genetic experiment."

John winced at his nerve, watching as the consulting detective looked away while biting back a wide, malicious grin.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stared Henry Knight down, "Why, are you joking?"

Henry narrowed his eyes, "My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville; about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism."

John leaned forward, feeling the need to break Sherlock's continuous monologue of insulting sarcasm. "Henry, whatever _did_ happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?"

Henry seemed to fall incredibly defensive, "I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all _so funny_."

The client got out of his seat, eager to leave at that point, having heard enough of Sherlock's "personality", but the detective's next statement had him frozen in his tracks.

"Because of what happened last night."

John furrowed his brows, "Why, what happened last night?"

Henry gulped, "How ... how do you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I didn't know; I noticed."

John turned away; seemingly aware of what came next.

"You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, _extremely_ anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do _please_ smoke. I'd be delighted."

Henry gazed at him blankly, mouth gaping open slightly, then turned to John, only to firmly plant himself back in the chair he had originally been sitting in, and fishing into his pocket. "How on earth did you notice all that?"

John quickly answered, "It's not important…"

_Sherlock didn't seem to agree. "_Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked…"

John scowled, "Not now, Sherlock."

"Oh _please_. I've been cooped up in here for ages." Sherlock pouted.

"You're just showing off."

"Of _course_," Sherlock shrugged, "I _am_ a show-off. That's what we _do."_

Turning to look back at Henry, Sherlock began his explanation.

"The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."

"How did you know it was disappointing?"

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your _shaking_ fingers. I know the signs."

John watched as Sherlock grew slowly more intense, "No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here."  
The detective glanced at his watch_,_ "It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry swallowed and then took a shaky breath,  
"No. You're right. You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "It's my job," He then leaned forward, glaring steadily at the client, "Now shut up and smoke."

John frowned, looked over his notes, and cleared his throat.

And it was because of a simple, quick deduction and some cigarettes, that Sherlock Holmes accepted the case of the mysterious man-eating hound.

And not the only one to accept it either.

* * *

"Why not?"

Sam was glaring at his brother, eyes fixed to match his agitated scowl, "Dean!"

"We can't just ignore it!" Dean shrugged, brows raised expectantly as he flopped back down onto the vintage bed sheets.

Sam groaned and sat on the mattress' side, "No, Dean! We can! We can ignore it! We came here to take a break from all that – to have some time to ourselves, to relax!" Dean rolled his eyes, as Sam finished, "Not chase some monstrous hound around England!"

Dean fixed his position, so that he sat upright, and gazed at Sam with a calculating expression.  
"It killed someone, Sammy. Now come on, you're not going to let that slide are you?"

Dean knew Sam wouldn't be able to fight off the guilt if he didn't go through with this, and he couldn't help but grin when he witnessed his brother's mask faltering.

The younger shook his head, and let out a long exasperated sigh, "I hate you."

"No you don't," Dean smirked, and got to his feet, "What do you say, Sammy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, and arched a brow.  
Dean patted his brother on the back, hard and quick, "Let's go hunt us a hound."

Sam rolled his eyes and joined Dean by the door, the two grabbing their coats eagerly, and grinning to themselves.

"Why not." Sam mumbled and shook his head; frustrated with the fact that Dean had managed to convince him - not that it took much, though.

"I need something to eat first." The older man snapped as he slammed the hotel room door behind his brother.

"Dean!" Sam growled in aggravation.

Dean shrugged, "Do they have cheeseburgers here?"


End file.
